


The Restricted Section

by partnerincrime



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, Inappropriate Use of Libraries, M/M, Missing Scene, Multi, OT3, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 01:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16923729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partnerincrime/pseuds/partnerincrime
Summary: What happens in the Belmont library stays in the Belmont library. A series of unrelated stories about Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard, and their time in the Belmont archives.See notes for each chapter for rating and pairings.





	The Restricted Section

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! My first foray into Castlevania fic - in which I was wholly unsatisfied with how little of my OT3 was previewed in the second season until the very end. I loved the concept and the art of the Belmont library, and as such, have used it as my launchpad for a series of their shenanigans, so I hope you enjoy! These are quite quick for me without much fine-tuning, so apologies in advance if you spot any mechanical issues. 
> 
> This first chapter is purely Trevor/Alucard + slight Sypha at the end. Rated E. 
> 
> Thanks to [bumblebeesknees](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebeesknees/pseuds/bumblebeesknees) for the quick read, despite me not giving her any warnings nor is she in the fandom aflksjakfljs I'm a terrible friend. Mistakes are solely my own.

_Never trust a vampire_.

Trevor knew these words by heart. It was Trevor’s father who had spoken them at the time when Trevor was only but a boy, over the dinner table one night, a dinner that Trevor remembers with frightful clarity – if he thinks willingly enough about it to pull the memory out. An ordinary dinner to end an ordinary day: he had come running back to the manor after a grueling session of exploration, climbing trees tufted with snow, playing pretend – doing what little boys do – as his sisters had sleepily emerged from the library after their father, too young to venture out on their own.

Mama had made Ciorbă de PerisoareIt that night, applying heapings of thyme as she always did, her classical French twist; served with warm bread and spiced wine, it was the perfect combination in smell alone to combat the winter cold. When Trevor closes his eyes, he can still smell it now, the yeast and the cinnamon in the air – and he feels the room, too: the gleaming silverware in the dim candlelight, and the wind howling through the vents as the manor creaked and groaned. 

His sisters were talking excitedly through large bites of bread. They were noisy things in their youth – annoying at best, and he could still feel their phantom feet kicking at his shins from under the table. They were recounting to Mama as to what they had learned today: how to kill vampires. 

“Running water, sunlight, or a stake to the heart,” Marie had recited, the youngest of Trevor’s sisters. She had paused, thoughtful.

She had then turned to their father. “Why must we hunt vampires, Papa? Can’t we all just be friends?” Her tone was of sweet innocence, one in which only a four-year old could muster.

Yet the whole table had fallen silent.

His father had slowly put his spoon down. His back had straightened, and he looked, suddenly, very old; aged ten years in a single moment. His eyes had turned nearly black in the low firelight. 

He had then looked at his children, and then looked at his wife – and then had said, in that resounding, absolute voice of his, those words: _never trust a vampire_. 

There was no further explanation, and yet Trevor and his sisters never needed no further answer than this. The phrase had been only uttered once in the span of his family’s mortality; but it was spoken with such gravitas that it need not be spoken ever again.

––

It’s not like Trevor’s ever forgotten what their father had told them that night. Out of the entire Bestiary, Trevor had approached the topics of vampires with the most caution – and likely so, as vampires were the most dangerous. 

Animals that walked in human skins: as he wandered town from town, he had always avoided travelling at night just to minimize his chances of meeting one. And as he was forced to interact with civilians, he had eyed all of them warily, glancing at their mouths for hints of sharp eyeteeth, or translucent skin stretched over angular bones.

He had been under some impression that it would be easy to identify vampires in a crowd, to pick them out by the bloodlust evident in their eyes, that cold perfection about them, or their feral smiles that gleamed white in the darkness. How could one _not_ know?

But then again… Trevor’s eyes flicker to Alucard from across the table. 

Alucard, perhaps, was an exception. There were traits to him that made him seem different; his appearance one, and his lineage, a strong other. But _seeming_ did not equate to _being_ : dhampir, he had called himself – but one could easily be a vampire in substance, not form. He had that coldness, and yet possessed golden eyes and flowing hair the colour of sun-bleached straw; Alucard belonged straight out of a fairytale, not a ghost story, a dead ringer of a sleeping princess in a tale his mother had spun to him long ago. 

But granted of course, if said princess slept in a coffin.

“Belmont, if you don’t stop staring, I will pluck your pretty blue eyes straight out of your skull.”

Ah yes. Trevor remembers it now. What gave Alucard way – that it wasn’t the blood-drinking or the Jesus-floating – no, it was as clear as day that what they had found under Gresit was no princess, as soon as he opened his fucking mouth to speak. 

Alucard doesn’t look at him directly, but Trevor knows he's being watched. “I’d like to see you try,” he snorts, as he turns the page of the tome in front of him almost absently. 

The corners of Alucard’s mouth curl, and his head lifts – so he can, finally, meet Trevor’s gaze. The sharp points of Alucard’s teeth almost shine menacingly in the low torchlight as he speaks; it’s unnerving, but Trevor hides it, and pushes that uneasiness aside. “In due time, dear vampire hunter,” Alucard says, “but not when I still need a functioning body to get through your family’s mountain of records regarding vampiric sightings and interactions. You’ve always wanted to be closer to your family – and now I’ve merely granted you that chance.” 

There is a jab in Alucard’s words, but Trevor doesn’t bite. The loss of family – while it’s enough to bruise, it no longer stings. “Liar,” he groans out instead. “You gave this task to torture me.” 

Alucard’s smile broadens but he says nothing. 

“You _fucker_.”

Maybe Dracula was onto something, trapping his absolute terror of a son in a secret underground dungeon, in an eternal slumber. This decision was starting to make a whole lot of sense.

“Maybe if you would actually read the pages in front of you,” Alucard starts, as his gaze falls to what Trevor is skimming through – Trevor really has no idea what this book is even about at this point. He raises a single perfect eyebrow, at the speed that Trevor is starting to turn the pages. “Although perhaps, you are not… ah, cut out for tasks regarding knowledgeable pursuits. Surely you can read, can you not, Belmont?” 

“Of course I can read.” Whether he wants to – well, that’s a different question entirely. 

“I'd appreciate it if you took this seriously.” 

“And I'd appreciate it if you stop treating me like a child,” Trevor snaps back. He can’t help it – not when Alucard speaks to him as if he _knows_ better, as his voice grates incessantly at Trevor’s nerves. How words flow like silk in his mouth, no rough patches and all clean consonants – yet at the same time, remains blistering and cold, still like freshly fallen snow. 

His voice is just too perfect and too polished; and it proves a point, merely another reminder of what Alucard is not. 

It just makes Trevor want to trample over his pristineness, to dirty him up; to take him by the shoulders and scream. 

_Show me you are human_ , he wants to yell, _show me that you can feel_.

But Alucard doesn’t do any of that. He just speaks as in that colourless tone of his, unmoving, “maybe if you would stop acting like one, you’d no longer need me to babysit you.” 

God, even his insults felt like they were _scripted_. 

“If you think you’re being clever, trust me you’re not. This isn’t incentivizing me to read any faster,” Trevor says, testily. 

“And if I haven’t made myself clear, even if you can read, I’m pretty sure if you even have the mental capacity to process half the nuance of the material you’re looking at anyway.” Alucard looks at Trevor for a long moment, before his eyes fall back to his own book. 

Trevor ignores the jab. Once again, Alucard evades, and it’ll take more than petty insults about being non-bookish for words to get under Trevor’s skin. 

Trevor grabs another tome from the pile, and with a loud thump, brings himself to open the cover. _Belmont archives volume #24: vampires_.

He stifles his groan. Great, only another sixty plus volumes left to go.

But then, Trevor hears Alucard make a noise; he murmurs something softly from across the table, sarcastic. “Well. Intelligence, apparently, is a recessive gene in your family tree, Belmont.”

Trevor doesn’t exactly understand the terms in which Alucard speaks, but he knows with certainty it’s an insult. “Watch your words,” Trevor snarls again. God, he just wants to shut Alucard’s voice out of his brain. “There wasn’t anything wrong with my family. Unlike yours, in which your entire family – your precocious pathetic mother, your mentally insane father - are practically the instigators of Armageddon.”

It’s a low blow, but Trevor… he knows what he wants, and he’s only survived this long by learning how to rile people up, getting them to grant him these opportunities to take. 

However, Alucard doesn’t even flinch at Trevor’s attempt to hurt him. “I never said that there was anything wrong with your family,” he says coolly. He doesn’t even acknowledge the latter half of Trevor’s comment, barely ruffled – and he just turns another page. “Except that they thought you could protect them,” he adds, detached.

 _Jesus fucking christ_. 

Trevor just stares at Alucard. How is it that nothing can phase him? It isn’t normal to act in the way that Alucard does: to never react, to never be moved; to take all the punches and never whine, to let his emotions roll off of him like water. He is so unlike Sypha, who is as quick as a wick, ready to be set alight – so warm and apparent in her intentions, it makes her that much easier to trust. 

Unlike Alucard. Alucard, who, despite his mixed blood, doesn’t act human at all. 

And that’s what gets to Trevor the most.

And it’s now, he’s done with this. Done with this pointless exercise, done with this little exchange. There is only so much passiveness, indifference that Trevor can take, before it feels like he’s talking to a brick wall or a piece of machinery, that’s been built to respond but never to feel. 

The anger and frustration finally bursts from within Trevor, and it’s like hot water coming to a boil, finally tipping over the edge. 

Trevor doesn’t even wait - he is climbing up over the table, knocking over precarious stacks of loose paper over and kicking books to the floor. The table is not long enough that Trevor needs barely more than a second to cross it; he is in front of Alucard in a flash and pushes him forcefully into the back of his chair. 

Alucard is not immune to momentum, and taking advantage of whiplash, Trevor grabs a fistful of Alucard’s shirt. 

“You make me sick,” Trevor snarls, “you and that smug fucking grin you always wear.” The material of the shirt is soft and loose beneath his fingers, yet, beneath, he can feel Alucard’s chest – and it is solid, pale as marble. 

It’s a hidden plea. _React. Show me that I can trust you_.

Alucard however – Trevor doesn’t like the look that wears right now. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips – he’s quietly amused. 

And then – _crack_. A noise rings in Trevor’s skull.

It takes seconds for Trevor to process the sound, to realize that it’s the sound of the back of his head is colliding against the table with a sickening thud.

“Is this what you want, Belmont? A fight?” Alucard is suddenly leaning over him, occupying his vision. Their faces are very close together, and Trevor can feel his long hair curling against his cheek. “Trust me when I say this, the previous time we fought, my abilities had been sluggish. But now… if we engage in... whatever this is, things will be very different.” 

Trevor spits in his face.

Yet – nothing. The spittle that hits his chin barely causes him to flinch. Alucard just cocks an eyebrow, perfect and precise. “Or is this what you really want?” he asks, his golden eyes flash dangerously. “For me to kill you?” 

Maybe. If that means that Trevor gets to bear witness to Alucard experiencing adrenaline, a shot of fear – or to see Alucard mourn, when he finally ends up tearing out his throat – then yes. Kill him then: what Trevor is looking for a semblance of truth in his actions, a confirmation of what Alucard is. What he truly is: to know that Alucard is more human than he is vampire, or the other way around – that perhaps Trevor can put his faith into this golden-haired sleeping soldier, who, right now, is nothing more than either a teaser of hope or a terrible trap. 

But Alucard will never get to this precipice on his own. And maybe that’s what causes Trevor to throw the first punch. 

He, of course, misses; Alucard is like lightning in his movement, too fast that Trevor only collides with air, and he realizes that Alucard has appeared behind him on the table, only when he whispers in ear. “If that’s your answer then.” 

Alucard’s breath is hot, and his voice is like a hidden purr – Alucard is clearly amused.

On reflex, Trevor turns. He swipes with his leg to where Alucard should be as he pulls himself up – but Trevor, he misses again.

Behind him – Trevor is unexpectedly pushed back into the table with a forceful hand, and his head slams hard into a corner of a stray book. “Slow, Belmont,” Alucard says.

And again, as Trevor tries to stand – Alucard’s boot stomps heavily into his back. “How is it that you’ve never perished from your own incompetence before this?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Trevor chokes as all the air leaves his lungs. He can’t move – but his arms are free and he scrabbles for anything he can use to get an upper hand. He grabs the book – and _throws it_. 

“This isn’t a tavern brawl,” Alucard says patiently. He must dodge the offending projectile neatly because Trevor hears no sound of impact. As Alucard moves however, he grants Trevor a few seconds of accidental recovery, enough for him to pull himself to his knees – and that’s where Alucard slips. “You haven’t even seen what I–”

Mid-sentence, Trevor lunges – this time, upwards – for Alucard and his neck. 

With a satisfying crack, he connects, colliding headfirst, and they go tumbling into the wood of the table.

 _Finally_. 

This isn’t necessarily about hurting Alucard, Trevor tells himself. Anger or sadness could work too; but it is about reaction, it is about fracturing this mask that Alucard wears, and letting the pieces fall away to see what lays underneath. Trevor doesn’t care that he feels his own blood matting his hair, and an intense ringing in his ears – _this_ , this is all worth it. 

He grins.

They fight for dominance. They roll around in whatever remains on the table – books falling, papers tearing and sent flying into the air as they wrestle, as they grip at each other with angry hands. Alucard’s nails dig painfully into Trevor’s forearms; likewise, as Trevor shoves Alucard’s head into the table.

Trevor has the upperhand – his surprise attack puts him nearly on top of Alucard, his weight settled into Alucard’s heaving stomach, heavy as an anchor. Alucard struggles beneath him, and Trevor can hear the mess of papers crinkling underneath – but as much as Alucard moves, he is limited by Trevor, his body and his arms, that pin him flat. 

This isn’t fair fighting, but – but then again, when has Trevor ever played fair? This is the kind of fighting that Trevor lives for, the kind that he is good at. _He will always get what he wants._

Alucard’s legs are still free and Trevor, anticipating his next movements, can feel himself about to get kneed in the back – so he grabs a fistful of his hair, and slams Alucard back down into the table again, hard. 

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Alucard spits as Trevor moves his legs to bracket Alucard’s, to restrain him. Several golden strands of his hair fall to the table, glistening like fine spiderwebs in the candlelight.

“All’s fair in love and war, _vampire_.” Trevor grins again. _Yes_. He tastes both victory and blood in his mouth. 

But then, he shifts – and he feels it. The hard heat of Alucard and his arousal beneath his clothes. 

Trevor’s eyes widen – only for a split second. 

“I meant war. War, you _fucking sicko_ ,” but Trevor is laughing as he says it. He’s more than a little manic as a strange sort of relief floods through him, crazily; and something has lightened within his own chest. All he was looking for was a truthful reaction, not one obscured by that smoke and mirrors that Alucard usually hides behind – and now, he’s found it. Found it, strangely, in heat. And although arousal wasn’t the reaction that Trevor was expecting from Alucard, weird as it is, it’s still _human_. 

It’s raw and shameful – and Trevor revels in it, he gets off on this too. 

He then sees Alucard close his eyes.

Trevor panics. No, this isn’t what he wants: this is Alucard regressing – trying to control himself. And Trevor doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want this to end. 

And that’s when it strikes him. Trevor gets a terrible idea. 

It may very well be the dumbest shit he’s ever tried pulling in his life. If Alucard didn’t want to kill him now – there was a high probability that he would after this. But he can’t shake the idea, as his smile grows and grows, until it’s downright devilish – and instead of throwing another punch, he starts pushing at Alucard’s jacket instead.

Alucard’s eyes snap open. 

“What… _what are you doing_?” Alucard hisses. But Trevor’s determination wins out over Alucard’s confusion: they struggle with his jacket for several seconds longer, before it falls to the floor. 

Trevor just laughs. He is pawing at Alucard’s shirt now. This was all he wanted, these parts of Alucard to reveal themselves, for what lays beneath Alucard shirt looks like what a human could be: a frame of lean muscle and bone, covered in fine blue veins that lead directly to his heart. 

Alucard is looking at Trevor with what vulnerability must be defined to vampires – full of wary distrust. He doesn’t know what Trevor is doing, and yet… he is no longer fully fighting, his hands no longer going for Trevor’s face, perhaps to take Trevor up on his previous promise – to pluck out his eyes. They grip instead, painfully, into Trevor’s wrists as he pulls Alucard’s shirt over his head. 

Trevor tells himself that this isn’t him being mean. It’s about letting go: all he wants is for Alucard to feel something, _anything_. To experience in what truly makes him human – whether it be confusion, wrought anger or heat, to feel the thrill of adrenaline coursing through him, as long as he feels it down in his spirit, pulsing through his core, running throughout his _human_ body. 

_Tell me that you’re alive_. 

Trevor is offing his own cloak, his jacket, and his shirt now – heavy layers that reveal his own, naked skin. The air is cool in the library, stale with age and the musk of books, and his muscles tense against it; he sees Alucard swallow loudly, and Trevor – well, he can barely contain his ever-growing grin. 

Trouser laces are done next, their cocks pulled free – and Alucard just stares. “Belmont–” he starts, but he is cut off by a stutter in his breath, when Trevor fingers brush over the head of Alucard’s cock for the first time.

“Come on, Alucard,” Trevor prompts. His voice is hard and commanding: “Let go.”

Alucard doesn’t; he instead, turns his head.

Trevor frowns. No, this won’t do. Trevor presses their naked chests together and licks a wet stripe down his neck. _Pay attention to me. Let me make you feel._

Nothing. Alucard barely moves, his skin ice-cold.

So Trevor is the one who decides to move first, slotting their pelvises together, allowing their rapidly hardening cocks touch. He thrusts.

And that… well that triggers something. The library is dim, the torches far – but Trevor is lucky to see it because he is close, the flutter of Alucard’s eyelashes as he struggles to keep his eyes open. How much this is affecting him. That Adrian is somewhere underneath the veneer, who is needing, looking for something – that lonely teenage who’s probably has never been touched a day in sorry life. 

And it's like setting a fire to gas, even though Alucard is nothing comparable to a flame – the colour of Alucard’s eyes nearly turn white with heat, as glares at Trevor, with must be both burning arousal and pure rage.

But Trevor just smirks and thrusts down again, grinding their cocks together. Alucard feels good against his body, hard lines under him that will support the wild weight of him, rebuke him, always push him back. And Alucard, hesitant – it takes him a slow moment for him to understand what Trevor wants from him. What Trevor is asking of him. But he mimics the movement, young, thrusting back – and he stills as Trevor groans. _Yes_.

And again, it repeats – Trevor once again then Alucard after, thrusting back, harder this time. He can feel the tip of his dick catching under the head of Alucard’s, as the slide suddenly becomes easier, slick up with wet precome. The tension in Trevor’s body winds, as he feels the building pleasure tight in his balls – and Alucard must feel it too, as muscles flex in his stomach, hard against his. 

And _again_ , they follow this pattern – until it is no longer a pattern: it becomes harder and faster, until they are grinding and bucking against each other desperately, a wild rocking that causes the table to creak, and jostle against the floor.

They don’t kiss. This isn’t a romance, nor does he want to feel the hint of Alucard’s teeth anywhere near the vicinity of his mouth. 

“You’re as cold as ice, vampire.”

“And you’re a _fire_ , fuck-”

Trevor relents; it's probably the nicest thing that Alucard has ever said to him and that’s something. It’s something yet it isn’t enough; Trevor’s a greedy bastard, and he wants _more_. He grips both of their cocks together tight in his hand, the sensation nearly has his eyes rolling in the back of his head. “ _Yes, fuck yes_.” 

And Alucard – he keens.

It doesn’t take long for them to both finish, the tension peaking – finally too much. Trevor’s hands fly over their cocks as he rolls his hips. _Creak, creak, creak_ goes the table legs, and and Alucard mouth moves in tandem to the sound – opening and closing as his sharp teeth bites so hard into his own lip, there’s blood. They climax at the same time under the hot heat and wicked friction, when it gets both too much and not enough at the same time – and as they shudder, they release, spurts of sticky come across each other their stomachs. Their chests heave together, Alucard’s up as Trevor’s comes down, their fluids cooling and mixing with each other’s. 

Then, barely seconds after, gruffly: “Get off me, Belmont.” 

Trevor closes his eyes as he rolls off of Alucard. Of course, pausing for two seconds after really really hot sex was _too sentimental_ for a vampire. “What, no cuddling?”

Alucard doesn’t even deign Trevor’s cheekiness a response. He efficiently slides the table, walking over as he dusts off pants and neatly tucks his dick away, as if _that_ will hide anything that has just transpired between them.

Trevor sighs. Maybe it was too good to be true.

Suddenly Trevor hears clapping. He sets himself on his forearms to look up at the ceiling of the library. 

It’s Sypha. She stands above them on the wooden bridge that spans the breadth of archives. She is backlit and small, given the distance – but the sarcasm dripping off her tone is recognizably hers, echoing much larger than her small body, off the library walls. “Bravo you dimwits, _bravo_.” 

Trevor groans, and he closes his eyes as his head sinks back to hit the table. “Sypha– ”

“Sypha _what_? We didn’t come to this library so you could get off in the comfort of your childhood home!” she screeches. “I’m happy that you got this out of your systems, but could you not show some respect here, and not _fuck all over the papers_?” 

Trevor winces. Not only about that childhood home bit – but he feels an impeding headache coming after the abuse it has taken; Sypha is incredibly loud, even from down here. 

Alucard is retrieving his shirt and his coat – that now both lay strewn in a heap on the floor – in what must be equivalent to a vampire’s walk of shame. “We were merely taking a break, Sypha.”

“Don’t make me come down there and freeze your damn asses to the seats of your chairs! If there’s a speck of semen on those papers, I will kill you myself-”

“Maybe the books, but not the papers,” Trevor calls out.

“Fuck you!” she yells again. “Put your dicks away!’ She storms off the bridge into another set of shelves, and Trevor swears he can hear her complaining, even that she’s several hundred feet way.

Trevor watches her disappear into the shelves. He sighs deeply again, rolling off the table. He nearly hits the corner of the table as his does this, but he’s too tired to even care – his head still pounding, his thinking woozy. Not like this is anything new: his poor decision-making always come back to bite in the ass, always after the fact. 

“Make sure to get Sypha to check your head,” Alucard says from behind him. It comes out so quiet, Trevor nearly misses it. 

Trevor grins. “What did you just say? If you could you repeat that?”

If Trevor’s eyes hadn’t deceive him – he swears he sees Alucard’s brow crease. 

“Fuck off,” Alucard says. He turns and stalks off into another bookshelf – leaving the mess of papers in his wake, likely for Trevor to clean up. 

Trevor just laughs, delirious. He doesn’t even care anymore, because there it is, he had got what he wanted this entire time: that off-the-cuff reaction, that fracture in his skin, the one that splits his veneer into two. The thing that tells Trevor he cares – that a range of emotions hide underneath, the ultimate proof that Alucard was more than a sum of his pieces. 

That while Alucard may not be wholly human nor vampire, there were enough pieces of him for Trevor to trust. 

Whoever said he made bad decisions, they were wrong: his father should’ve trusted him more. _Never trust a vampire_ , his father had said – and in theory, Trevor never has. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please feel free to leave a comment! I'm also on Twitter [@1fifthbusiness](https://twitter.com/1fifthbusiness), if you want to throw prompt ideas at me or just want to chat :)


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